The Road Up

The turnout to the Trabuco Canyon Monastery is hidden in the dappled shadows offered by the canopy of trees extending over much of Live Oak Canyon Road. The two narrow lanes from Cook’s Corner climb quickly, and the shoulders on either side are lined with tubular sandbags, set apart at a rhythmic distance and angled slightly downhill towards the centerline. At the top up you abruptly drop and dive into curves that tempt you to drive as if you’re in a video game, especially if you’ve got traffic tailgating with the agency that comes from being a local. The sign marking the start of the ascent to the monastery is small and set back from the road. Blink, and you’ll miss the turn.

Maybe self-realization isn’t supposed to be easy.

From here it’s a winding and mostly one-lane paved pathway. There’s a sign prohibiting bikes, and several others marked “Blind Corner! Please Honk” for good reason. We comply. We carefully skirt around one and we’re face to face with an SUV coming downhill. It’s a momentary standoff, but he apparently knows he must accommodate uphill traffic.

We creep past each other very carefully.

I’d been here once before, a few months ago. I knew of it from old signs along El Toro Road that disappeared as the slopes below the monastery’s perch on its ridge were developed. But what really piqued my curiosity was a chapter about it in Orange County: A Literary Field Guide. It’s a work carefully researched and created by two local authors, activists, and professors, Lisa Alvarez and Andrew Tonkovich.

The chapter is an excerpt from an English writer, Christopher Isherwood, who penned the story “I Am a Camera” about life in Berlin as Hitler came into power. This story was the basis of the play and movie, “Cabaret.” Isherwood left Germany before WWII started and ended up in California. While here he became intrigued with the teachings of an Indian, Swami Ramakrishna, through the Vedanta Society. There was a branch in Hollywood that expanded into Orange County. Isherwood wrote about visiting the new monastery, and an excerpt of his observations is in the Orange County book.

“There is something weird about the emptiness of these Southern California uplands…You could wander for miles, always expecting there’d be a ranch house around the next slope, just out of sight, with a little town beyond. But there are no towns, and very few houses, in the whole neighborhood.” ^[1]

While the constant and almost frantic impetus to build homes is the story of Orange County since the late 1950’s, the approach to the Monastery remains a venture into the world that Isherwood describes. As to the place itself:

…A local architect…had evolved…a long, straggling building, a series of cloisters which mounted, in flights of steps, the slope of a little hill. The total effect was beautiful. The buildings fitted perfectly into the landscape…When you were in the courtyard, your view was bounded by the irregular line of red tiled roofs against the sky. But when you opened the big gates and entered the cloister, you found yourself at the edge of a hill, looking away over the woods and hollows to the distant ocean.” ^[2]

As I mentioned, I’d read the story and was intrigued about a place that in theory thumbs its nose at what seems to drive our everyday lives here in the OC. At the end of this visit I’ll find one of Christopher Isherwood’s books in the gift shop.

But before this we tour the monastery, at least the area that’s open. It’s clear today, but recent rains have rendered the walking trail inaccessible. That’s twice now I haven’t had the chance to wander and pause at the monuments to the world’s religions and faiths dotting the Shrine Trail as it meanders behind the grounds and along the ridge.

We hike the steps up to a small courtyard with a Buddha statue framed by a garden with a quietly gurgling fountain. It sets a tone of relaxation and introspection. There’s a covered patio to one side, and through its arch the foothills and canyons open towards the west. Isherwood’s story recalls being able to see all the way down to the ocean and sometimes spot Catalina Island. The rolling hills he mentions are now less pristine; it’s hard not to notice the encroachment of roads and housing tracts. Swaths of concrete cut up the canyon’s slopes in a parasitical slash of civilization. We can see Fashion Island, but Catalina is lost in a coastal haze.

To the left of this patio are steps leading up to three large rooms. On either side of are a Library and a door marked “Private.” We can’t visit the Library as there’s a class or service in process. The middle room is a chapel has an altar, a statue of Ramakrishna stage left, his portrait above a small table with a trail of incense rising from it, and a portrait of The Holy Mother. It’s hard not to notice that she’s the only woman with iconic presence in the room. Depictions of Ramakrishna surrounded by enrapt disciples line most of the walls. The room’s center is filled with lines of folding chairs. There are prayer cards here and there on the seats.

About halfway down the right wall (facing the altar) is a door to the outside. It’s only a few steps to the edge of the ridge, and we notice a shrine and walk up to it. Apparently, we are out of bounds, which we find out when we follow the path around the chapel and end up on the wrong side of the Head Monk’s residence walkway.

We’re back where we started. To one side is a garage and tool storage building. Past that are dorms for the resident monks. In front of the garage is the Gift Shop, which, aside books and other items, sells jars of an excellent honey from apiaries the monks manage.

Directly ahead is a winding path of mixed surfaces, stones mingling with dirt, pavement, and wood chips which leads to the Meditation Building. It’s circular, with two heavy wood doors under a tall awning as the entry. Inside this is a small, almost lightless vestibule with benches to sit on and take off your shoes. Two more swinging doors lead into the Meditation Room.

Inside it’s very quiet, save for the almost tantric hum of two electric podium fans on the main altar or stage. Seats follow the circular layout on the entry level. A short step down from a bench that matches the room’s curve leads to mats on the floor. People are sitting on the bench and perched on the mats. My eyes are too old to see where I’m stepping so I stay on the upper level. There’s a sense of being sealed into an embracing and safe place.

I don’t know if I surrender to the calmness and meditate…or just drift off. When I become aware of the room again it’s not from a jolt but a slow return to where I’d started.

My friends are outside, sitting on a low wall, admiring the trees and flowers, and not at all impatient. After a bit we all know it’s time to leave. We head back through the path we’d taken to the Meditation Room, towards the Gift Shop and the monk’s wonderful honey, my ulterior reason for returning. I’d end up with more than I’d come for.

There’s a guy in a motorized wheelchair In front of the shop, next to a flashy dirt bike. We recognize him from our last visit: Travis (I think that’s his name) is a groundskeeper who’d told us he’d found direction and peace at the monastery. He’s limited to being a greeter until he heals from a spill taking while dirt biking. During our first visit, I vaguely recall him mentioning a directionless life, a chance job interview at this monastery, and finding peace and meaning. It must still be working; he seems calm and accepting of his current circumstances.  The gift shop is busy, both with visitors and what’s on display. Not surprisingly, there’s a hint of incense in the air, and every scent imaginable among the burnable sticks, candles, and oils scattered on shelves and tables. Windows run the length of the shop, looking out to the Monastery. Back-to-back bookshelves face them and divide the shop, broken at even intervals by a line of tapestries and semi-transparent shrouds. There’s something mystical about brushing past and feeling the light touch of the fabric trace over you.

The back wall is neatly crammed with more books and racks stacked with tchotchkes of dubious reliquary-worthiness and there’s even more books on the cojoined bookshelves. It’s an overwhelming presentation of spiritual and commercial possibilities. I meander to where the register and honey are located.

But while I’m done, my friends are still checking out the shop. So, I retrace my path. I could’ve gone out front and waited, but I don’t…and at the far end of the rear section I spot a book on display. All by itself, one of the few with a glossy white cover, and I don’t know if it’s a side effect of the window light, which I think is spotlighting it, but it catches my attention. It’s titled The Wishing Tree, and there’s a pencil sketch of the author --- who turns out to be Christopher Isherwood.

Now I get to circle back to something else that happened prior to this visit. That took the form of a Facebook post by Lisa Alvarez, one of the “Orange County” book authors I mentioned…

Today's morning quiz: name this famous ex-pat British writer walking with Thomas Mann...no fair looking it up!

…accompanied by a snapshot of a page from a story, “Hyperion to a Satyr.” It’s hard to read, but the mysterious scribe mentions, “A few months before the outbreak of the Second World War I took a walk with Thomas Mann on a beach some fifteen or twenty miles southwest of Los Angeles.”

My guess is Christopher Isherwood. Wrong (“…nope, but indeed, he hung out with Isherwood a lot.”). It’s Aldous Huxley.

I pick up the book, and the random page that opens has a black-and-white photograph of three men at the Vedanta Society in Hollywood, circa 1940. The caption notes they are Swami Prabhavanada, Huxley, and Isherwood. Looking down at them from a  portrait on the wall is Ramakrishna, Vedanta’s guiding light.

I must take a picture of the picture, of course, and post it. When I try to fold the book as flat as possible to avoid reflections from the ambient light and distortion from the bending page I crack the spine. To me it’s the sound of a gunshot. I freeze. But no one around me has noticed. Outwardly, the book is fine, no pages have fluttered out to land accusingly at my feet. No one will know if I just put it back on and leave…except for me. I take it up to the register, have a good conversation about how I discovered the Monastery and Isherwood, and the clerk asks me to write down the name so they can get a copy of Orange County: A Literary Field Guide.

We leave the shop, wave to the wheelchair-bound docent, and head back. We dutifully honk when we were supposed to but don’t encounter any traffic headed uphill.

“The Wishing Tree” has a subhead: “Christopher Isherwood or Mystical Religions.” The book is a collection of articles and essays written between 1943 and 1987. From my reading I’m finding Isherwood came to mysticism and Vedanta serendipitously, while working through his unhappiness with his life, a Christianity he found repressive and authoritarian, and the rise of Fascism. Isherwood was openly gay and became an influential figure in gay culture and politics. I think I’d assumed this from Cabaret through the sexual and gender fluidity its characters evoked.

I remember something that stuck with me from grad school: a writer needs to be aware of how their education, social position, and assumptions about the meaning or point or purpose of life has colored their observations and conclusions—and this should be expressed to the reader. Upfront, and as transparently as possible, without the pretense it’s an objectively true narrative. In other words, know your biases.

With that, I grew up with whatever advantages being upper middle class gave me, in terms of economic stability, education, and being comfortable enough  to ask questions, and the ‘60s and early 70s offered a fruitful field of opportunities. I’m not claiming to be a perfect critic.

While Isherwood almost backhandedly acknowledges the advantages his upper-class life provided him, in terms of education, travel, a safe perch to be critical, and peer security, he seems oblivious to how anyone less privileged could afford to follow the same path. And his uncritical observations on how the Holy Mother (Ramkrishna’s wife) was treated more as a servant than an equal suggests an assumption about a woman’s place in the hierarchy of this religion. It follows what I’ve seen at the Monastery. To be fair, I’ve barely touched the surface of his writings.

I wonder how Isherwood would describe Orange County today.  Aside from all the development, I’d bet he’d be horrified at the epidemic spread of Evangelical Christianity. It fundamentally (to borrow a phrase) mirrors what Vivekananda (one of his spiritual mentors) observed:

Can you not see the tide of death and materialism that is washing over these Western lands? Can you not see the power of lust and unholiness, that is eating into the very vitals of society? Believe me, you will not arrest these things by talk, or movements of agitation for reform; but by renunciation, by standing up, in the midst of decay and death, as mountains of righteousness. ^[3]

Aside from the way the last open areas of The OC are being paved and repurposed in the name of an amorphous “Progress,” we have seen Jesus reimagined as an aggressive warrior. And let’s not forget “The Prosperity Gospel.” It amazes me how people who firmly believe in the inalienable right of an individual to make their own decisions will blindly listen to a pastor or minister…who tells them their wealth and success is proof that they have divine approval for what they do and how they live. I don’t mean to cast aspersions on everyone who finds peace and meaning in worship.

But I can’t help but feel that, on some level, they’re being hoodwinked.   

So far, my main takeaway from the book is—if you’re trying to answer the questions “Who am I?” and “What are life and death?”—you are not going to find any easy answers. It’s a struggle that pervades Isherwood’s narrative. I think part of the difficulty is surrendering to and accepting a reality beyond your earthly “self” and, through meditation and mentoring, finding your spiritual “Self.” It’s a process that’s often at odds with the materialism that’s at arguably been at the heart of our collective consciousness. And not just in the past.

Then there’s the ongoing and interconnected effect of your actions, by which I think he means “karma.”

Isherwood posits karma is more than a final judgment: it’s dynamic. Your deliberate and subconscious choices and actions “work” backwards and forwards in time, as time is spiritually non-linear. Whether you do or don’t believe in mysticism as part of your religion or faith (especially regarding the questions I’ve noted), there’s a common thread: your eternal life or reincarnation is greatly influenced by kindness and love.

 I’m still wondering about the series of events that worked asynchronously to: get me to buy a book written by people I know; visit a monastery twice; incorrectly answer a social media question that came to me between the visits; find a book by the author I’d erroneously cited; and end up buying that book after I’d inadvertently broken it trying to take a picture of a picture.

I’ve had a life-long issue with organized religion. Over time, I’ve begrudgingly grown more open to the ideals of faith—but remain steadfastly very skeptical about religion. To me, it’s a cooptation of faith used to explain (and justify) political power and social order. But one article of faith has meaning for me. “Every man is his own priest,” a conclusion that got Martin Luther in all kinds of hot water. You need to figure the answers to those big questions out on your own.

I think every faith and religion would agree that the universe is God and “God works in mysterious ways.”

And then they’d go to war over the specifics.

^[1] Alvarez and Tonkovich, “Orange County—A Literary Field Guide,” 146

^[2] ibid, 147

^[3] Isherwood, “The Wishing Tree,” 131

*Cover Photo: Kim Gerrard @2026

Peter Gerrard grew up in Southern California, and ended up “Behind the Orange Curtain,” specifically Irvine. While he attended UCI for graduate school (which he never finished), his wife Kim and two sons are Anteaters with degrees. He likes to ski, and ride bikes that are embarrassingly expensive but at least environmentally justifiable. Classes and seminars at IVC and Chapman keep his interest in writing fresh.